A friend of mine, who is five months into her pregnancy, was rushed to the emergency room recently, terrified that she might lose her baby.
She and her husband sat across from a resident doctor on duty who was exhausted, having been deprived of sleep for hours on end, with every attempt to rest her eyes, even briefly, disturbed by a call to carry out one medical procedure or another.
My friend began weeping as her husband, who was helpless as most men are in such a situation, tried to calm her by caressing her back. The denim jacket my friend wore made a scratching sound and at one point, the resident looked up angrily and spat out, "can you please stop doing that?" at the distressed couple.
They looked at her with dismay. Is that all she could say at a time like this? "Sorry," she said. "I've been up for 20 hours straight and have a hard time concentrating. All I can hear now is the sound of the cloth rubbing."
That story sums up the battle of medical residents to cut their excruciating 26-hour shifts.
And there sat a terrified couple of prospective parents and an overworked and exhausted physician, who chose her vocation as an obstetrician-gynecologist, not in order to rake in cash but to help women just like my friend on their path towards the most important and meaningful moment of their lives.
But despite her best intentions, the impossibly long hours on duty broke her down. The resident was devoid of empathy.
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Resident doctors protest at Azrieli Junction in Tel Aviv over long work hours
(Photo: Motti Kimchi)
Even the world's most empathic doctor could not muster the patience to answer the questions of a concerned man complaining about chest pains, or calm fears of parents of a sick child with a life-threatening condition on their 26th hour at work.
"You become furious with every patient whose arrival at the ER will rob you of a few minutes of sleep or of the chance to grab a bite of the sandwich that you bought in the morning," one resident doctor said as he confessed to his terrible bedside manners.
I asked him to greet me as if I was an incoming patient, and he was doing his job properly. "Hello, I am Dr. Cohen," he said, "and I will take care of you this evening, but unfortunately the ER is swamped and there are seven people I must attend to before you. I apologize in advance. I will be with you as soon as I can, and we will run some tests."
I timed him. It took him no longer than 13 seconds to complete the greeting. Unfortunately, he has not been able to greet anyone in that fashion and no patient in the emergency room has heard anything even close to that introductory speech.
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A violent scuffle between a patient's family and medical staff in Western Galilee Medical Center's ER last May
The ER in Israeli hospitals is a harsh place where some patients' relatives attack medical teams and others threaten doctors and nurses rushing down the halls.
When a patient is lucky enough to grab the attention of one of them, they will likely resemble a hostage and not the celestial angels we want them to be when we are hurt or ill.
Israeli doctors are amazing. We've seen their greatness time and again, especially during the coronavirus pandemic. But even their incredible stamina has its limits and until some of the workload is lifted and work hours reduced, our healthcare system will remain a cruel and seemingly uncaring one.